Nothing disturbs its profound meditation
in densest dark where no current reaches.
No one remembers its lonely location
far from the glitter of holiday beaches.

Yet there it lies like a submarine shipment
of pressurized helmets all drifted with sands.
Its dynamo's dead and its useless equipment
held in the fingers of skeleton hands.

Chock-full of rubbish from nineteen-twenty,
a junk-shop collection of clockwork mice,
a fleamarket banquet of bottles, all empty,
a crystal-set wireless and buckets for ice.